When I stepped onto my husband’s private jet, another woman was sitting in my usual seat beside him.

The transatlantic crossing took six hours and forty minutes.

While Aaron was crossing the ocean in blissful ignorance, sipping vintage Dom Pérignon from crystal flutes while Jasmine stroked his ego and Evelyn made catty remarks about my lack of social ambition, I was sitting in the library of my family’s pre-war apartment on Fifth Avenue.

The room smelled of old leather, beeswax, and centuries of inherited wealth. Marcus Vance sat across from me at the mahogany partner's desk, flanked by two of the most lethal corporate litigators in North America: Eleanor Vance, his daughter, and David Chen, an intellectual property assassin who charged twelve hundred dollars an hour simply to glance at a summary brief.

"The situation is remarkably straightforward," David Chen said, sliding a thick leather-bound dossier across the desk toward me. "Aaron Prescott has spent the last five years building his public narrative as an engineering savant. But Prescott Technologies does not actually own the neural-routing architecture that makes their flagship product, the Aether-9 enterprise suite, work. Lumina Holdings owns it."

"And the licensing agreement?" I asked, flipping through the pages of crisp legal bond.

"Drafted by your father’s attorneys before he passed," David pointed out, tapping a paragraph highlighted in yellow. "Section 14, Subsection B. The license is contingent upon two conditions: first, an annual symbolic royalty payment of one dollar, which has been routinely processed. Second, an unbreachable moral and operational covenant stating that Prescott Technologies cannot sub-license, alter, or announce proprietary derivative works based on the Lumina patents without the prior written consent of Lumina’s managing principal."

"Which is Alyssa," Eleanor added, her eyes flashing behind designer frames. "And tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, Paris time, Aaron is scheduled to deliver the keynote address at the Global Tech Convergence Summit. He is unveiling the 'Aether-Pro Autonomous Core'—a system built entirely on your unreleased patent updates."

"Did he file for consent?" I asked coldly.

"He didn't even know he had to," Marcus scoffed, sipping a single-malt Scotch. "Aaron assumed that because he married you, Lumina was merely an empty legal shell set up for his tax convenience. He has spent so long believing his own press releases that he forgot where the intellectual bedrock came from. He treats your family's empire like his personal checking account."

My phone vibrated on the polished wood. The screen lit up with a text message from Aaron.

*We landed in Paris. You were childish to walk off the jet over a simple seating arrangement, Alyssa. Jasmine was embarrassed, and my mother was appalled by your lack of poise. I don’t have time for your domestic tantrums this week. Stay in New York and cool off. When I get back from the summit, we will discuss how you can be more supportive of my public profile.*

Right beneath it, a photo was uploaded to Jasmine’s public Instagram story.

It was a shot taken from the tarmac at Le Bourget. In the background was the sleek private jet. In the foreground, Jasmine held up a glass of orange juice with the caption: *Paris at dawn with the visionary himself. Long nights, hard work, and unforgettable journeys. Some people simply can’t handle the altitude.*

In the lower corner of the frame, Aaron’s hand was resting lightly on Jasmine’s hip as they walked down the mobile air stairs.

I looked at the image. For years, I had believed that if I were gentle enough, humble enough, and supportive enough, Aaron would eventually feel secure enough to love me without feeling threatened by my existence. I had dimmed my own light so that his fragile candle could appear to be a sun.

"David," I said quietly, setting the phone facedown on the mahogany desk.

"Yes, Alyssa?"

"File the injunction."

David’s lips curved into a sharp, predatory smile. "In French commercial court, or federal district court in New York?"

"Both," I said. "And Eleanor?"

"Yes?"

"Evelyn’s residence on East 68th Street. The deed is held under the Sterling Family Residential Trust, correct?"

"Fully. Your late father bought it in 1998. Aaron’s mother has been living there under a tenancy-at-will agreement for four years, paying zero rent, with the trust covering the property taxes, utilities, and a monthly maintenance stipend of fifteen thousand dollars."

"Terminate the tenancy-at-will. Issue a formal notice to vacate within forty-eight hours for gross breach of property quiet enjoyment."

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with fierce pride. "Now you sound like a Sterling, my dear. What about the debt facility?"

"The one point five billion dollar bridge loan matures on the fifteenth of this month," I said, my voice steady, devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more dangerous. "Aaron was planning to roll it over into a ten-year unsecured note backed by his Paris product launch. Send a formal demand letter to the board of directors. Full repayment within five business days, or Lumina initiates immediate foreclosure proceedings on all pledged corporate assets."

"That will trigger an immediate board crisis," Eleanor noted. "The stock will plunge the moment trading opens on Wall Street."